Will Nextdoor create community as a virtual back fence? Larry Wilson

When I was growing up in the suburbs of Los Angeles, of course we knew our next-door neighbors. Doris and Hal Bresnan. Beautiful little brown-shingled ranch house. One son, Jimmy, seven or eight years older than my sister and me. Though it was the volatile 1960s, and though I imagine Hal and Doris were Republicans, and my parents were Democrats, I don’t recall a political argument. I loved it when I got to visit, especially for dinner if my folks were out, because Doris, a full-time housewife, would serve up things like fried chicken and mashed potatoes, even on a weeknight. No brown rice and main-course salad there. Most fascinating to me: Every item she had in her pantry or medicine cabinet — a stick of deodorant, say — had the identical item behind it, as backup. When it was used, she moved the twin forward, and bought another. That way, she told me, she never ran out. Hal dubbed my sister Susie Q., nothing like her real name.

Do suburban Angelenos know their next-door neighbors today? Sure, after a fashion. We know many of the people on our block to say hello to. But we’ve been there 25 years. And when was the last time we ate dinner with them? Mmmm. I remember a 1980s Seder at the Glatsteins’ ...

Problem? I think so. Socially, and practically. Losing touch is not good for the neighborhood soul. And when the Big One comes, we’ll need to hang together. But, hey, no problem after all: There’s an app for that.

No, really. There is. And it’s called, naturally, Nextdoor.

Can a pixilated little widget on the screen of your iPhone replace Doris’ chicken and Jimmy’s garage band playing “Dirty Water”? Not hardly. But when I heard about Nextdoor, I signed up, because I’m easy that way. Yes, it’s in a sense just another online social network. But the difference, say its founders, is that unlike your Facebook friends scattered around the world, the folks you’re linked with on Nextdoor really are your neighbors. The Bay Area-based company has identified 37,000 neighborhoods around the U.S. You have to use your real name and prove that you live there through some cross-matching with telephone or credit-card numbers. How are they planning on paying back their angel investors? Advertising, of course. And they’ve got you where you live.

Someone figures out a name for the neighborhood, and just like on those Google maps of L.A. where you’ll see monikers that don’t exist in real life, ours is wrong: North Arroyo, it’s called, though it’s been known as Linda Vista for a century. Not a deal-killer. There’s a home page and an inbox and room for event listings. There’s a map that shows all neighboring addresses, and when they’ve joined Nextdoor, even their name.

And lookie-here, fully six of my neighbors who are within a strong 7-iron of the Wilson cottage have joined already. I could drop them a line within the network, if so inclined. That’s one worry skeptics have: Nick Wingfield wrote in The New York Times that the site may “be used to publicly shame” neighbors or lead to “snarky messages” between residents, according to Wikipedia. Company says the use of real names quashes that.

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Most of the message traffic I’ve seen so far is along the lines of looking for a pool cleaner, and being told that our fire-prone area requires tempered glass in the windows. Some is clearly commercial; a Realtor posts, “It’s awesome that we are sharing referrals and ideas!”

I asked my sister if she’d heard of it, and she texted back: “I’m a member as Neighborhood Watch captain. Lots of chatter about the best nail salon, etc. What happened to chatting over the back fence? We actually do that in our neighborhood.”

So 20th century, that Susie Q.

Larry Wilson is a member of the Los Angeles News Group editorial board. larry.wilson@langnews.com